;  N  R  Y 


Collection  of  9mertcan  Utterature 


iicqueatfjrb  to 


Cf)e  Htbrarp  of  tfje  Hniuersttp  of 
Jlortf)  Carolina 


"He  gave  back  as  rain  that  which  he 
received  as  mist' ' 

C6  -  H5^3V\3 


C.  Alphonso  Smith, 
Department  of  English, 

Kaval  .Academy, 
Annapolis,  Maryland. 

UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00032193689 

This  book  must  not 
be  taken  from  the 
Library  building. 


THIS  EDITION  IS  LIMITED  TO  FOUR 
HUNDRED  AND  TWENTY-SEVEN  COPIES  OF 
WHICH  THREE  HUNDRED  AND  SEVENTY- 
SEVEN  ARE  FOR  SUBSCRIBERS  IN  THE 
UNITED  STATES,  AND  FIFTY  FOR  SUB- 
SCRIBERS   IN   ENGLAND. 


NO, 


SL 


LETTERS  TO  LITHOPOLIS 

FROM 

Q,  HENRY 

TO 

MABEL  WAGNALLS 


LETTERS       TO 
LITHOPOLIS 

FROM    O.    HENRY 

TO 

MABEL    WAGNALLS 


GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y.,  AND  TORONTO 

DOUBLEDAY,   PAGE  &   COMPANY 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,   1922,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 

PRINTED  IX  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AT 

THE  COUNTRY  LITE  PRESS  GARDEN  CITY.  N.  Y 


PREFACE 

"The  human  Will,  that  force  unseen, 
The  offspring  of  a  deathless  Soul, 
Can  hew  a  way  to  any  goal, 
Though  walls  of  granite  intervene." 

IT  is  always  a  privilege  to  meet  a 
great  man.  The  revelation  of 
him  when  off-guard  and  not 
busied  with  fashioning  either  forms 
or  fancies  for  the  public  eye  is  sure 
to  radiate  some  flash  of  personality 
that  is  inspiring.  There  are  just  two 
methods  of  encountering  genius  away 
from  the  limelight — by  a  handshake 
or  a  letter.  The  handshake  and  ex- 
change of  words  may  be  eternally 
impressive — to  one  person;  but  to 
meet,  in  the  pages  of  a  letter,  with  one 
of  these  soaring  spirits — one  whose 
altitude  is  measured  by  the  depth  of 


Vll 


PREFACE 

his  insight — this  is  an  exhilaration 
that  may  be  shared  with  others.  My 
first  meeting  with  O.  Henry  was  of 
this  sort,  and  the  thrill  of  astonish- 
ment I  received  I  am  enabled  to  pass 
on  to  every  reader  of  this  little  book. 
The  experience,  surprising  as  it  was 
delightful,  had  a  prelude  I  must  ex- 
plain. 

Some  months  before,  I  had  read  a 
story  that  greatly  impressed  me;  it 
was  "Roads  of  Destiny."  Not  only 
was  I  impressed  by  the  originality 
of  the  idea  and  style,  but  also  by 
the  originality  of  the  author's  name. 
Just  "Henry"  with  an  exclamation 
before  it.  I  wondered  how  a  writer 
could  hope  to  be  remembered  with 
such  a  casual  tag-mark.  What  su- 
perb indifference  to  fame!  Then,  on 
second  thought,  I  considered  it  a 
clever  bid  for  fame — a  name  so  coy  as 
to  be  conspicuous.  Then,  on  third 
viii 


PREFACE 

thought,  that  Henry  name  began  to 
stir  up  activities  in  other  crevices 
of  my  brain.  I  had  a  great  grand- 
mother named  Henry.  Our  family 
tree  I  had  long  since  discovered  to 
be  sadly  lacking  in  decorations.  No 
stars  or  coronets  hung  on  its  boughs, 
nor  even  a  horse-thief  to  vary  the 
respectable  monotony.  Perhaps  here 
was  an  offshoot  I  had  missed — a 
Henry  branch  that  might  prove  illus- 
trious. I  searched  in  "Who's  Who" 
and  asked  literary  friends,  but  "O. 
Henry"  was  on  no  list  of  celebrities 
I  could  find.  So  I  scribbled  a  few 
lines  to  his  publisher,  told  who  I  was 
— or  rather  who  my  father  was — and, 
as  one  publisher  to  another,  so  to 
speak,  I  begged  to  know  whether 
O.  Henry  was  man,  woman,  or 
wraith. 

I  mailed  the  missive — and  forgot  it. 

Time — but  why  be  prosaic?  "The 
ix 


PREFACE 

days,"  to  quote  from  my  favourite 
author,  "with  Sundays  at  their  head, 
formed  into  hebdomadal  squads,  and 
the  weeks,  captained  by  the  full 
moon,  closed  ranks  into  menstrual 
companies  carrying  Tempus  Fugit  on 
their  banners." 

By  the  time  Thirty-fourth  Street 
was  displaying  sport  suits  and  para- 
sols and  the  trunk  stores  were  an- 
nouncing instant  removals,  my 
mother  and  I  made  our  annual  visit 
to  my  grandmother's  home  in  Lith- 
opolis.  You  have  possibly  never 
heard  of  this  town.  Don't  look  for 
it  on  the  map:  it  isn't  there.  And 
don't  look  for  it  from  any  railroad 
train  window:  it  isn't  there,  either, 
Lithopolis  stands  alone — faithfully 
guarding  an  ancient  stone  quarry  so 
long  disused  that  no  one  knows  when 
it  last  was  drilled  or  blasted.  Again 
let   me   say   that   Lithopolis   stands 


PREFACE 

alone,  maintaining  an  aloofness,  an 
exclusiveness,  that  is  unmatched,  I 
believe,  by  any  other  cluster  of  frame 
houses  radiating  around  a  one-block 
trading  area  of  single-story  shops. 
Not  even  the  famous  walled-in  town 
of  Rothenburg  is  so  difficult  to  enter 
and  so  difficult  to  get  out  of  after 
you're  in.  The  daily  mail-wagon 
was,  at  the  time  of  our  visits  there, 
the  sole  public  means  of  transit 
thither  and  thence;  and  likewise  the 
one  excitement  of  the  day. 

There  are  three  hundred  and  fifty 
inhabitants  in  Lithopolis — never 
more,  never  less.  The  two  hundred 
and  eight  houses  it  contains  are  kept 
in  repair,  and  even  rebuilt,  but  a 
new  house  is  never  added.  Rather 
than  do  this  people  leave  the  town — 
or  die.  It  is  cheaper.  People  never 
move  to  Lithopolis,  but  they  can't 
help  being  born  there.  This  is  what 
xi 


PREFACE 

happened  to  both  my  father  and 
mother.  Lithopolis  is  elite  as  the 
St.  Nicholas  Club  of  Manhattan: 
to  belong  to  it  you  must  be  born  to 
it.  And,  by  way  of  further  resem- 
blance, its  people  are  eternally  clan- 
nish; they  have  a  way  of  clinging  to 
the  home-town  with  a  fondness  that 
is  irrefutable.  Though  the  place  is 
small  and  primitive,  the  surrounding 
hills  are  delightful,  and  the  near-by 
ravine,  with  its  winding  stream,  would 
thrill  the  heart  of  a  Corot.  The  in- 
habitants are  neighbourly  and  on 
good  terms  with  one  another  in  spite 
of  the  paling  fences  that  divide  off 
their  front  yards.  Flowers  grow 
near  every  doorway,  and  at  the  end 
of  Main  Street,  up  on  the  hill,  is  a 
picturesque  graveyard  shaded  by 
stately  elms  and  spruce  that  give  it 
an  impressive  dignity. 

There  is  a  tinge  of  old-world  aris- 
xii 


PREFACE 

tocracy  in  the  town's  disdain  for  all 
phases  of  modern  industry.  Repose- 
ful as  a  medieval  princess  in  a  rock- 
bound  castle,  Lithopolis  takes  no 
heed  of  the  whirring  wheels  and  high- 
pressure  mechanism  of  the  outer 
world.  The  little  community  is  al- 
most self-sustaining.  In  its  strag- 
gling business  block  you  will  find, 
besides  the  general  store,  a  drug 
store — that  indulges  in  literature  on 
the  side,  a  barber's  shop — very  active 
on  Saturday  evenings,  and  a  butcher's 
shop  that  never  saw  a  filet  or  a  tender- 
loin. There  is  a  millinery  shop  that 
cuddles  close  to  the  post  office,  and 
just  beyond  the  second  lane  sounds  a 
blacksmith's  shop.  The  hardware 
store  plies  a  good  trade  in  plows — 
and  also  deals  in  coffins.  There  are 
four  churches  to  say  prayers  over  the 
coffins  when  they  are  filled,  and  on 
the  other  street  (there  are  only  two) 
xiii 


PREFACE 

is  the  shop  of  a  tombstone-maker 
(her  name  is  Alta  Jungkurth — more 
of  her  later).  And  opposite  to  this 
shop  stands  the  house  and  surround- 
ing trees,  the  little  garden  and  chicken 
corral  of  my  eighty-year-old  grand- 
mother whose  mother  had  been  born 
a  Henry. 

Though  the  outlook  from  my 
grandmother's  window  was  a  bit 
doleful,  the  Lutheran  church  right 
adjoining  imparted  an  atmosphere  of 
peace  and  strength  that  enabled  us 
to  contemplate  the  tombstones  across 
the  way  with  equanimity.  One  grew 
quite  accustomed  to  them,  in  fact. 
As  new  monuments  were  frequently 
erected  in  the  graveyard  to  replace 
less  pretentious  ones,  the  discarded 
old  stones  became  an  accumulation. 
Whenever  a  good  flat-surfaced  slab 
was  needed  for  any  sort  of  purpose 
the  neighbours  knew  where  to  ask 
xiv 


PREFACE 

for  it.  Mrs.  Needles  decapitated  her 
chickens  on  a  stout  piece  of  slate 
that  bore  a  worn  inscription  to 
Ezekiel  Smith,  born  1803 — died  18 10. 
Another  neighbour's  front  doorstep, 
had  you  peered  underneath,  told  of 
one  Hermann  Baumgarten,  who  left 
this  world  in  1842. 

All  things  were  conducive  to  mak- 
ing my  grandmother's  home  a  peace- 
ful place  in  which  to  dream  dreams 
and  put  them  into  words.  For  this 
purpose  I  used  to  resort  to  the  attic 
— a  huge  space  with  slanting  roof, 
and  to  my  mind  the  best  furnished 
region  in  the  house.  There  was  a 
spinning  wheel,  and  several  old  chests 
(one  had  a  secret  drawer),  and,  most 
eerie  of  all,  was  a  huge-faced,  highly 
decorated  clock,  decrepit  and  out  of 
use,  that  stood  on  the  floor.  This 
clock  had  an  uncanny  way  of  striking 
One  at  rare  intervals,  apparently  for 

XV 


PREFACE 

no  reason  at  all,  though  we  finally 
concluded  that  some  unnoticed  jar- 
ring of.  the  floor  must  have  occa- 
sioned it.  An  apple  tree  bough,  close 
to  the  house,  swept  across  one  of  the 
attic  windows.  In  the  spring,  when 
this  bough  was  abloom  and  the  win- 
dow was  open — ah! — it  was  a  place 
for  any  sort  of  wild  fancy  to  unfold. 

Secreted  one  day  in  my  precious 
attic,  I  had  seated  myself  on  the  floor 
by  a  chest,  where  I  was  scribbling 
energetically  and  picturing  myself  as 
a  starving  poet  forced  to  dwell  near 
the  eaves,  when  I  heard  the  voice  of 
my  mother: 

"Come  down,  Mabel;  here's  a 
letter  from  Henry !" 

I  had  a  distant  cousin  by  this  name 
from  whom  letters  were  frequent  and 
I  was  puzzled  at  the  special  summons 
to  read  a  letter  from  him.  Again 
she  called: 

xvi 


PREFACE 

"From  Henry,  the  author." 
Whereupon  I  said  "O!"  I  came 
down  and  was  soon  reading  aloud  the 
jolliest,  breeziest,  most  unusual  letter 
that  had  ever  come  my  way. 

After  several  re-readings  to  the 
entire  household,  there  loomed  before 
me  the  prospect  of  replying  to  this 
post-impressionist  epistle.  How  to 
answer  this  answer  to  my  query 
about  "O.  Henry"  was  a  problem. 
But  I  didn't  go  up  to  the  attic  to 
do  it.  I  drew  the  old  Boston  rocker 
up  to  my  grandmother's  big  centre 
table,  shoved  back  the  Bible,  the 
family  album,  and  the  lamp,  and  soon 
pushed  my  pen  easily  enough  into  the 
opening  sentence  with  the  natural 
statement  that  his  letter  had  been 
forwarded  to  Lithopolis.  Then,  as 
day  follows  night,  as  ferment  follows 
yeast,  that  name  "Lithopolis"  had 
to  be  explained.  It  is  a  name  never 
xvii 


PREFACE 

mentioned  to  the  uninitiated  without 
eliciting  a  circle  of  questions,  so  I  put 
down,  then  and  there,  all  that  seemed 
to  me  needful  about  the  cosmopolis 
Lithopolis.  After  dinner  I  handed 
the  letter  over  the  fence  to  Nellie 
Laney  (the  postmistress)  on  her  way 
up  street  to  sort  the  noon  mail. 

Not  long  after  this  there  was  an- 
other red-letter  day  in  the  little  house 
next  to  the  Lutheran  church;  eight 
pages  of  uproarious  manuscript  from 
my  mysterious,  ink-slinging,  Texas- 
cowboy  correspondent  sojourning  in 
New  York  were  read  aloud  to  my 
mother  and  grandmother,  the  hired 
girl  and  the  cat,  to  say  nothing  of  a 
neighbour  or  two  (O.  Henry's  repu- 
tation was  growing!).  And  right 
then,  as  I  read  those  rollicking  pages, 
I  realized  that  Lithopolis  had  occa- 
sioned them.  I  realized  this  fact 
more  and  more  as  his  letters  con- 
xviii 


PREFACE 

tinued  to  come.  His  publishers  real- 
ize it  to-day:  hence  the  title  on  the 
cover  of  this  book.  A  little  old, 
obscure  town  it  is,  unfitted  for  any 
highway  place  along  the  roads  of 
steel.  In  a  quiet  nook  on  "Roads 
of  Destiny' '  is  where  you  will  find 
Lithopolis.  A  great  mind  and  spirit, 
speeding  on  to  fame,  found  time  once 
to  note  and  give  heed  in  his  letters 
to  the  side-tracked  tiny  town. 

O.  Henry,  unheralded  as  yet,  a 
lone  stranger  in  New  York,  evidently 
found  enough  diversion  in  my  Litho- 
politan  news-letters  to  impel  him  to 
continue  making  use  of  the  Pennsyl- 
vania and  Hocking  Valley  Railroads, 
in  conjunction  with  two  horses  and  a 
mail-wagon,  as  carriers  for  some  high- 
grade  samples  of  the  World's  Best 
Literature.  It  required  no  excep- 
tional genius  on  my  part  to  realize 
that  his  letters  were  worth  saving.  I 
xix 


PREFACE 

kept  them  at  first  in  my  desk;  then 
in  a  letter  file;  then  (my  precaution 
keeping  pace  with  his  fame)  in  a  tin 
box;  and  finally  they  were  handed 
over  to  my  father  who  had  suggested 
placing  them  in  his  safe  at  the  office. 
This  he  did — unmindful  of  the  fact 
that  that  particular  safe  had  an  un- 
canny reputation  for  discriminating 
judgment  in  the  matter  of  priceless 
mementos.  It  was  the  same  safe 
that  had  swallowed  up  and  concealed 
for  years  Dr.  Funk's  famous 
"Widow's  Mite" — an  incident  that 
required  a  whole  book  to  explain. 
That  safe  now  promptly  made  away 
with  our  precious  O.  Henry  letters, 
and  in  spite  of  much  frantic  search 
for  them,  the  little  shelf  where  they 
had  been,  where  they  should  have 
been,  and  where  they  certainly  were 
placed — was  a  shelf  blankly  innocent 
of  any   papers   bearing   the   Henry 

XX 


PREFACE 

chirography.  So  great  was  our  amaze 
at  the  wraith-like  Houdini,  the  lock- 
conquering  break-away  of  those  let- 
ters, that  at  first  I  felt,  as  their  author 
has  said,  "there  could  be  no  more 
calendar,  neither  days,  weeks,  nor 
months." 

But  time  sped  firmly  on,  not  only 
months  but  years.  And  during  those 
years,  O.  Henry's  fame  grew.  Oh, 
how  it  grew !  The  whole  world  knew 
this,  but  none  knew  it  better,  none 
knew  it  so  deeply,  as  my  mother  and 
I  and  Daddy — especially  Daddy! 
We  read  columns  and  pages  in  the 
papers  about  O.  Henry,  and  always 
we  finished  with  the  wail,  "What  a 
pity  about  those  letters !"  It  did 
seem  as  though  an  unmerciful  amount 
of  news  about  America's  greatest 
humourist  came  our  way.  Friends, 
aware  of  my  acquaintance  with  him, 
took  pains  to  send  me  clippings.  It 
xxi 


PREFACE 

finally  became  an  unwritten  law  of 
our  home  to  avoid  the  mention  of 
his  name,  for  the  memory  of  those 
lost  letters  was  too  exasperating. 

Still  more  years  flocked  by.  Then 
one  day  came  a  voice  over  the  tele- 
phone: my  father  from  his  office 
shouting  good  news:  "I  have  found 
the  O.  Henry  letters!"  It  is  not 
clear  to  me  yet  how  he  found  them, 
or  where;  apparently  in  some  nook 
as  obscure  in  that  safe  as  Lithopolis 
is  on  the  map.  Anyway,  here  they 
are,  and  I  truly  believe  every  reader 
will  receive  the  same  thrill  they  im- 
parted to  us  when  first  read  aloud, 
long  ago,  in  my  grandmother's  cosy 
front  room. 

My  acquaintance  with  O.  Henry, 
as  an  occasional  caller  in  our  New 
York  home,  leaves  the  memory  of  a 
quiet,  serious,  hard-working  author; 
one  whom  I  felt  was  predestined  to 
xxii 


PREFACE 

fame  though  he  had  slight  regard  for 
the  author-craft.     He  was  sincere  in 
his  statement  of  belief  that  "writing 
pieces  for  the  printer  isn't  a  man's 
work."     His  idea  of  a  man's  work 
was  to  get  out  in  the  world  and  estab- 
lish a  great  business — as  John  Wana- 
maker  did.     Several  times  I  heard 
him  speak  with  profound  admiration 
of  this  merchant  prince,  whom  he 
had  never  met.     Equally  sincere,  I 
have  good  reason  to  believe,  was  his 
expressed  indifference  to  music;  he 
never  asked  me  to  play.     I  served 
tea  and  cakes  when  he  called  and  we 
talked  casually  on  any  subject  under 
the  moon.     I  told  him  how  his  first 
letter  reached  me  when  I  was  up  in 
the  attic  trying  to  imagine  myself  a 
poor,  starving  poet.     I  can  hear  yet 
his  prompt  and  serious  reply. 

"That  is  something  you  cannot  im- 
agine.   No  one  who  has  not  known  it 


XXlll 


PREFACE 

can  imagine  the  misery  of  poverty." 

0.  Henry  was  so  serious  in  saying 
this  his  voice  became  almost  tragic. 
"Poverty  is  so  terrible  and  so  com- 
mon, we  should  all  do  more  than  we 
do — much  more — to  relieve  it.  We 
intend  to,  perhaps,  but  we  don't  do 
it.     You  ought  to  do  more,  so  ought 

1,  right  now.  I  ought  to  give  fifty 
dollars,  but  I  don't."  Though  mak- 
ing a  social  call,  O.  Henry  was  just 
then  deeply  solemn  and  earnest. 
Was  he  ever  jocose  in  his  talk  as  in 
his  writings?  I  never  found  him  so. 
About  the  only  witticism  I  recall  was 
the  last  time  I  saw  him;  the  very  last 
words  I  heard  from  him.  As  he  stood 
at  the  door  after  saying  good-bye 
he  asked  whether  he  might  come 
again,  real  soon.  I  laughingly  asked 
what  he  called  "real  soon." 

"What  time  do  you  have  break- 
fast?" was  the  merry  retort, 
xxiv 


PREFACE 

Shortly  after  this  my  mother  and 
I  went  to  Europe  and  it  chanced  that 
we  never  again  saw  O.  Henry.  But 
some  time  later  he  sent,  through  my 
father's  office,  his  most  recent  book 
with  an  inscription  highly  typical 
and  dashed  off  in  his  best  freehand 
style: 

"  To  Miss  Mabel  W T agnails— 

with  pleasant  recollections  of  a  certain 
little  tea  party  where  there  were  such 
nice  little  cakes  and  kind  hospitality 
to  a  timid  stranger. 

o.  henry:9 

"A  timid  stranger"  —  somehow 
that  describes  him.  To  life  itself  and 
the  whole  world  he  carried  the  air  of 
a  timid  stranger.  Something  in  his 
manner  made  me  think  of  William 
Watson's  " World  Strangeness": 
xxv 


PREFACE 

"Strange  the  world  about  me  lies, 
Never  yet  familiar  grown — 
Still  disturbs  me  with  surprise, 
Haunts  me  like  a  face  half-known. 

I  have  never  felt  at  home, 
Never  wholly  been  at  ease." 

So  it  seemed  with  O.  Henry.     Never 
quite  at  home — just  a  little  out  of 

place — and  even  in  death But 

I  must  tell  this  very  gently,  and  with 
somewhat  of  bated  breath.  We  went 
to  O.  Henry's  funeral,  my  mother 
and  I.  We  had  read  in  the  papers 
of  his  passing,  and  had  noted  the 
hour  and  the  place;  a  fitting  place  it 
was — the  Little  Church  Around  the 
Corner — the  Church  of  the  Strangers, 
as  it  sometimes  is  called.  We  sup- 
posed there  would  be  a  large  crowd; 
probably  cards  of  admission  would 
be  required.  We  had  none,  but  we 
went  intending  to  stand  on  the  curb, 
xxvi 


PREFACE 

if  need  be,  to  pay  our  last  deference 
to  one  of  America's  Immortals.  But 
no  crowd  edged  the  curb;  we  saw  a 
few  carriages  and  a  small  group  at 
the  door  that  somehow  was  far  from 
funereal  in  appearance.  On  entering 
the  vestibule  we  were  accosted  with  a 
question.  So  certain  were  we  it  must 
be  a  request  for  a  card  that  for  a 
moment  we  were  uncomprehending 
— and  good  reason  there  was  for  our 
dismay.  We  had  heard  the  strangest 
question  ever  worded,  I  believe,  at 
chancel  door  since  the  cross  of  Christ 
stood  over  it: 

"Have  you  come  for  the  wedding 
or  the  funeral?" 

Somehow  it  was  a  phrase  that 
stabbed  to  the  heart,  though  we  soon 
understood,  of  course,  that  a  mistake 
had  been  made  in  the  time  set  for  the 
two  ceremonies.  The  wedding  party 
was  already  there  but  it  was  decided 
xxvii 


PREFACE 

to  hold  the  funeral  first.  So  a  few  of 
us — astonishingly  few,  unbelievably 
few — sat  forward  in  the  dim  nave 
while  a  brief — a  very  brief — little 
service  was  read  over  the  still  form 
of  one  whose  tireless  hand  had  penned 
pages  of  truth,  humour,  and  philoso- 
phy that  will  live  as  long  as  the  foun- 
dation stones  of  our  Hall  of  Fame 
endure. 

One  felt  a  hurried  pulse  through  all 
the  service,  and  as  the  cortege  passed 
out  a  flower  or  two  fell  from  the  cas- 
ket and  we  knew  that  soon  the  bridal 
train  would  be  brushing  them  aside. 
Out  of  place,  it  would  seem,  to  the 
last,  was  O.  Henry;  with  hardly  time 
in  the  church  to  bury  him.  But  his 
work,  his  books — there  is  place  for 
them  in  four  million  homes  of  those 
who  speak  his  tongue;  more  than  four 
million  copies  of  his  books  have  been 
sold. 


xxvi  11 


PREFACE 

Yes,  there  is  room  in  the  world 
for  his  work.  And  there  is  room  in 
the  hearts  of  the  people  for  his  fame 
to  rest  for  ever. 


Mabel  Wagnalls, 


XXIX 


LETTERS  TO  LITHOPOLIS 

FROM 

O.   HENRY 

TO 

MABEL    WAGNALLS 


LETTERS  TO 
LITHOPOLIS 


O.    HENRY 
TO     MISS     WAGNALLS 

New  York,  June  9  th,  1903. 
My  dear  Madam: 

THE  "Cosmopolitan  Maga- 
zine" forwarded  to  me  yes- 
terday the  little  note  you 
wrote  on  May  9th,  in  regard  to  some 
of  the  short  stories  I  have  been  per- 
petrating upon  the  public.  I  do  not 
know  why  they  held  your  letter  so 
long  unless  they  thought  it  was  a 
MS.  submitted  for  publication,  and 
finally  decided  to  reject  it — in  which 
case  I  think  they  showed  very  poor 
taste  and  judgment. 

I'm  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  you  that 
I  am  a  man,  and  neither  a  woman  nor 
a  wraith.     Still   I   couldn't  exactly 


LETTERS  TO 

tell  you  why  I'm  glad,  for  there  isn't 
anything  nicer  than  a  woman;  and  I 
have  often  thought,  on  certain  occa- 
sions, that  to  be  a  wraith  would  be 
exceedingly  jolly  and  convenient. 

When  you  were  looking  for  "O. 
Henry "  between  the  red  covers  of 
"Who's  Who"  I  was  probably  be- 
tween two  gray  saddle  blankets  on  a 
Texas  prairie  listening  to  the  moon- 
light sonata  of  the  coyotes. 

Since  you  have  been  so  good  as  to 
speak  nicely  of  my  poor  wares  I  will 
set  down  my  autobiography.  Here 
goes! 

Texas  cowboy.  Lazy.  Thought 
writing  stories  might  be  easier  than 
"busting"  broncos.  Came  to  New 
York  one  year  ago  to  earn  bread, 
butter,  jam,  and  possibly  asparagus 
that  way.  Last  week  loaned  an 
editor  $20. 

Please    pardon    the    intrusion    of 


LITHOPOLIS 

finances,  but  I  regard  the  transaction 
as  an  imperishable  bay.  Very  few- 
story  writers  have  done  that.  Not 
many  of  them  have  the  money.  By 
the  time  they  get  it  they  know  bet- 
ter. 

I  think  that  is  all  that  is  of  interest. 
I  don't  like  to  talk  about  /iterature. 
Did  you  notice  that  teentsy-weentsy 
little  "1"?  That's  the  way  I  spell  it. 
I  have  much  more  respect  for  a  man 
who  brands  cattle  than  for  one  who 
writes  pieces  for  the  printer.  Don't 
you?  It  doesn't  seem  quite  like  a 
man's  work.  But  then,  it's  quite 
often  a  man's  work  to  collect  a  cheque 
from  some  publications. 

I  was  very  glad  to  get  your  letter, 
even  though  it  comes  as  to  a  wraith 
or  an  impersonality.  Why?  Well, 
down  in  Texas  we  are  sort  of  friendly, 
you  know,  and  when  we  see  a  man 
five  miles  off  we  holler  at  him  "Hello, 


LETTERS  TO 

Bill"!  In  New  York  the  folks- 
well, — (I  wish  I  could  show  you  right 
here  how  the  Mexicans  shrug  one 
shoulder).  Your  letter  seemed  to 
read  like  a  faint  voice  out  of  the 
chaparral  calling:  "Hello,  Bill,  you 
old  flop-eared  wraith,  how're  they 
comm'?"  In  Texas  the  folks  freeze 
to  you;  in  New  York  they  freeze  you. 
Sabe? 

But  I  do  not  consider  this  a  fault 
in  New  York.  After  one  gets  ac- 
quainted with  the  people  they  prove 
to  be  very  agreeable  and  friendly.  I 
have  made  a  number  of  friends  among 
the  magazine  men  whom  I  like  very 
much. 

What  a  pity  it  is  that  a  downtrod- 
den scribbler  can't  manage  to  claim 
kinship  with  a  publisher's  family! 
'Way  down  in  Louisiana  is  where 
my  "Henry  "  name  came  from.  Can't 
you  dig  up  an  ancestor  among  the 


LITHOPOLIS 

old  Southern  aristocracy  so  we  can 
be  cousins? 

Do  you  know,  Miss  Wagnalls, 
what  would  be  the  proper  procedure 
on  this  occasion  if  this  happened  to 
be  Texas?  I'll  tell  you.  I'd  get  on 
my  bronco  and  ride  over  to  15  th 
Street  and  holler  "Hello,  folkses!" 
And  your  pa  would  come  out  and  say: 
"Light  and  hitch,  stranger";  and  you 
would  kill  a  chicken  for  supper,  and 
we  would  all  talk  about  /iterature  and 
the  price  of  cattle. 

But  as  this  is  New  York  and  not 
Texas  I  will  only  say  I  hope  you  will 
overlook  the  nonsense,  and  believe 
that  I  much  appreciate  your  cheer- 
ing letter.  There  are  one  or  two 
stories  that  I  think  you  have  not  seen 
that  I  would  like  to  have  your  opin- 
ion of  if  you  would  let  me  submit 
them  to  you  some  time.  I  think  the 
judgment   of  a   normal,    intelligent 


LETTERS  TO 

woman  is  superior  to  that  of  an  editor 
in  a  great  many  instances. 

Sincerely  yours, 

O.  Henry. 

47  West  24th  Street . 

II 

O.     HENRY 
TO     MISS     WAGNALLS 

New  York,  June  25,  1903. 
My  dear  Miss  Wagnalls: 

Your  pleasant  little  note  from  the 
metropolis  Lithopolis  was  received 
and  appreciated,  although  some  envy 
was  stirred  up  at  the  sight  of  your 
postmark.  Just  think! — you  are  out 
in  the  wilds  of  Ohio  where  you  can 
pick  daisies  and  winners  at  the 
county  racetrack,  wear  kimonos  and 
shoes  large  enough  for  you  and  run 
either  for  exercise  or  office  as  often 
as  you  please.  Me — I'm  in  my 
6 


LITHOPOLIS 

garret  nibbling  at  my  crust  (softened 
by  a  little  dry  Sauterne)  and  battling 
with  the  wolf  at  the  door — (he's  try- 
ing to  get  out — don't  like  it  inside). 

Lemme  see!  Fairfield  County — 
that's  over  across  the  "crick,"  isn't 
it,  just  this  side  of  the  woods?  And 
Lithopolis — wait    a   minute — b'lieve 

I've  heard  of No,  it  wasn't  the 

town — I  guess  it  was  a  new  $3  shoe 
or  a  trotting  horse  I  was  thinking  of. 
(The  whole  paragraph  was  inspired 
by  envy.  I  know  it's  peaceful  & 
lovely  &  rural  and  restful  out  there. 
"Lost  in  Lithopolis;  or  Lolling  among 
the  Lotuses — not  to  mention  the 
Lima  Beans."  'Twould  make  a  sum- 
mer drama  that  would  snow  "The 
Old  Homestead  "  under — paper  snow, 
of  course.) 

Wait   a   minute — let   me   consult 

my  notes Oh  yes Thanks 

again   for  saying  such  kind   things 


LETTERS  TO 

about  my  stories.  But  let's  talk 
about  something  else — writing  little 
pieces  for  the  printer  man  isn't  much. 
There  ought  to  be  a  law  reserving 
literature  for  one-legged  veterans  and 
widows  with  nine  children  to  write. 
Men  ought  to  have  the  hard  work  to 
do — they  ought  to  read  the  stuff. 

Er — lemme    see Oh    yes: — 

will  I  be  wending  my  way  back  to 
Texas?  (Please  don't  say  "wend- 
ing"; it  has  such  a  footsore,  stone- 
bruisy  sound  to  it.  Makes  you  think 
of  railroad  ties  and  things.)  Well,  I 
dunno.  Sometimes  I  get  tired  of 
New  York,  and  want  to  be  where  I 
can  holler  "Hello,  Aunt  Emily!"  to 
the  mayor's  wife,  and  go  back  of  the 
counter  in  the  post  office  with  a  sort 
of  Lithopolitan  insouciance  and  free- 
dom. The  other  night  I  went  up  to 
the  Madison  Square  post  office  and 
sat  on  the  steps  for  two  hours.  Do 
8 


LITHOPOLIS 

you  know,  that  postmaster  never 
even  came  out  and  said  "how's 
tricks/'  much  less  joining  in  for  a 
social  chat.  Everybody  is  so  stiff  in 
New  York.  But  I  hardly  think  I'll 
leave  this  year.  I've  got  the  editor 
men  chasing  me  for  stuff  now,  and  I 
want  to  work  'em  a  while  longer. 

Now,  let's  see  again Oh  yes 

— am  I  interested  in  music?  Now,  I 
think  right  here  is  where  you  are  go- 
ing to  repudiate  your  cousin,  for  I 
know  all  about  why  you  asked  the 
question.  I  can  just  see  the  dreamy 
look  in  your  eyes  as  you  slather  Cho- 
pin and  Bay  Toven  out  of  the  piano 
keys.  Am  I  interested  in  music? — 
Well,  er — why,  certainly — interested, 
but  not  implicated.  I  once  was 
reputed  to  know  something  about 
printed  music,  but  I  acquired  the  dis- 
tinction by  fraud.  I  gained  it  by 
being  able  to  stand  at  the  piano  and 

9 


LETTERS  TO 

turn  the  music  exactly  at  the  proper 
time  for  a  certain  young  lady,  who 
aggravated  the  ivory  frequently.  No 
one  ever  found  out  that  she  gave  me 
the  signal  by  moving  her  right  ear,  a 
singularly  enviable  accomplishment 
that  she  possessed.  I  may  say  that 
I  had  an  ear  for  music,  but  it  did  not 
belong  to  me. 

I  was  going  to  send  you  a  couple  of 
old  magazines  with  plot  stories  that 
I  think  would  have  interested  you, 
but  on  looking  I  find  that  I  haven't 
kept  copies  of  them.  I  trespass  so 
far  on  your  good  nature,  though,  to 
send  2  or  3  recent  ones  that  you  may 
not  have  noticed,  as  being  afflicted 
with  "O.  H."  stuff.  I'll  send  you 
the  July  "McClure's"  in  a  day  or 
two  (if  I  may)  which  contains  an- 
other. I  don't  think  that  anybody 
but  you  reads  them,  and  I  don't 
want  my  audience  to  get  away.  I 
10 


LITHOPOLIS 

am  thinking  of  getting  out  a  nice 
red  book  with  chewed-up  edges  pretty 
soon,  and  I  was  feeling  really  hopeful 
and  enthusiastic  at  the  thought  that 
you  might  buy  a  copy  and  thus  en- 
able it  to  appear  in  the  list  of  most 
popular  works  sold  in  the  Lithopolis 
department  stores.  But  I  reflected 
that  as  a  member  of  a  publisher's 
family  you  would  be  able  to  get  one 
at  wholesale  rates,  or  maybe  free,  and 
the  dream  has  faded. 

I  ought  to  apologize  for  writing  so 
much,  but  it  is  such  a  comfort  to 
send  out  MS  &  know  that  it  will  not 
be  returned. 

If  you  have  time  &  sufficient 
charity  I  would  like  to  hear  some- 
thing more  about  Lithopolis.  How 
are  the  Domineck  chickens  getting 
along,  and  has  your  grandmother  had 
the  fence  painted  this  spring? 

Sincerely  yours 

O.  Henry, 
ii 


LETTERS  TO 


III 

INTRODUCTORY     NOTE 

The  Dramatis  Personae  of  the 
next  letter  requires  some  explaining 
and  introducing.  A  play  manager, 
glancing  over  the  manuscript,  would 
say  there  are  too  many  characters. 
The  list  of  names  is  indeed  formidable 
and  varied.  They  are  here  presented 
in  the  order  of  their  appearance,  as 
the  up-to-date  programs  say: 

Mr.  E.  J.  Wheeler. 

Don  Hypolito  Lopez  Pomposo  An- 
tonio Riccardo  Doloroso 

Otto 

Oliver 

Obadiah 

Orlando 

Oscar 

Orville 

Osric 

12 


LITHOPOLIS 

Bart  Kramer 

The  Tombstone  Lady 

Barefoot  Boy 

Bouncer 

To  begin  at  the  beginning — con- 
sider the  Top  Liner,  Mr.  E.  J. 
Wheeler.  Why  is  he  here?  First  of 
all  he  is  not  Mr.  Wheeler — he  is  Dr. 
Wheeler  (the  Alma  Mater  kind). 
And  he  is  not  squat,  square-faced, 
and  distracted-looking;  he  is  tall, 
dignified,  and  the  epitome  of  poise. 
You  can  see  his  name,  if  you  look  for 
it,  on  the  news-stands  every  month. 
(He  is  editor  of  a  well-known  maga- 
zine.) And  you  can  hear  his  voice,  if 
you  go  there,  once  a  month,  at  the 
meetings  of  the  Poetry  Society,  of 
which  he  is  the  Pioneer  and  Pilot. 
He  is  one  of  the  literary  friends  I 
first  turned  to  when  seeking  informa- 
tion about  the  creator  of  "Roads  of 
Destiny."     He  it  was,  in  fact,  who 

13 


LETTERS  TO 

suggested  that  I  send  a  letter  to 
the  publisher.  Dr.  Wheeler  was  at 
one  time  associated  with  my  father's 
firm.  I  know  him  well;  so  well,  in- 
deed, that  I  know  his  faults,  though 
no  very  close  acquaintanceship  is 
needed  to  discover  his  principal  fail- 
ing. Dr.  Wheeler  is  absentminded. 
It  is  not  merely  the  absentminded- 
ness  of  poetic  frenzy.  He  did  not 
become  thus  distinctive,  he  was  al- 
ways so,  he  was  born  so.  The  tales 
Mrs.  Wheeler  could  tell — !  Indeed, 
she  was  to  be  envied  as  a  conversa- 
tionalist, for  she  was  steadily  supplied 
with  home-made,  enlivening  anec- 
dotes; the  Doctor  always  enjoyed 
these  (after  they  happened)  as  much 
as  she  did.  But  knowing  this  pro- 
pensity of  his,  I  was  in  the  habit  of 
forestalling  it,  taking  all  due  precau- 
tion against  his  forgetfulness  when  I 
approached  him  on  any  important 


LITHOPOLIS 

matter.  It  now  occurred  to  me  to 
let  Dr.  Wheeler  know  that  I  had  un- 
earthed the  elusive  author  I  was 
trailing,  and  to  have  them  meet  each 
other.  For  this  purpose  I  sent  my 
new  friend  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
the  old  one,  and  expressed  a  hope  that 
he  would  present  the  letter  before  Dr. 
Wheeler  forgot  he  was  coming.  (I  was 
mailing  at  the  same  time  a  note  to  the 
Doctor  explaining  his  prospective 
caller.)  These  precautions  on  my 
part  are  what  stirred  up  O.  Henry's 
artistic  instinct  to  the  point  of  pictur- 
ing my  absent-minded  editor  friend. 
The  second  name  on  the  list,  Don 
Hypolito  Lopez  Pomposo  Antonio 
Riccardo  Doloroso,  I  am  in  no  way 
responsible  for.  But  the  following 
three,  Otto,  Oliver,  and  Obadiah,  are 
my  own — my  very  own — I  invented 
them.  I  have  mentioned  before  my 
keen  interest  in  the  initial  standing 

*5 


LETTERS  TO 

sentry  to  that  Henry  name;  that 
modest- violet  sort  of  nom  de  plume 
that  was,  whether  intended  or  no,  a 
regular  trumpet-call  for  attention 
so  enticed  and  tantalized  me  that  I 
did  well  to  wait  until  my  third  letter 
before  broaching  the  subject.  I 
wasted  no  time  in  subtleties — just 
asked  point-blank  what  the  "O." 
stood  for,  and  told  him  the  only 
names  I  could  think  of  were  Oliver, 
Otto,  and  Obadiah.  His  reply  was 
delightfully  disconcerting.  I  could 
not  charge  him  with  ignoring  my 
question;  he  must  have  given  a  full 
hour's  work  to  the  answer.  But 
none  the  less,  I  was  left  in  the  air — 
with  a  subconscious  feeling  that 
someone  had  told  me  his  front  name 
was  his  own  and  would  I  kindly  stay 
put  in  my  grandmother's  yard  and 
not  try  to  play  in  Madison  Square.  In 
a  later  letter  I  learned  why  O.  Henry 
16 


LITHOPOLIS 

stubbed  his  pen  and  could  not  answer 
when  I  asked  him  what  the  "0."stood 
for.  The  plain  fact  is  it  stands  for 
just  nothing — exactly  as  it  does  in 
our  arithmetics  at  school.  O.  Henry 
had  never  bothered  to  devise  a  name 
for  that  "O."  It  stands  there  alone, 
and  will  stand  so  for  ever,  an  unwit- 
ting emblem  of  his  fame — that  en- 
during circle,  the  symbol  of  eternity. 

And  now  for  Bart  Kramer — ubi- 
quitous Bart — who  owned  the  barn 
that  was  burnt  to  the  ground.  This 
much  he  knows  and  must  well  re- 
member, but  that  that  fire  was  de- 
scribed to  a  lazy  genius  in  New  York 
who  lit  upon  it  as  a  subject  for  some 
clever  pen  strokes  that  eventually 
find  themselves  perpetuated  in  a 
book — all  this  will  be  news  to  Bart. 
It  was  a  fine  fire,  lacking  nothing  in 
the  way  of  spectacular  effects — mid- 
17 


LETTERS  TO 

night — church  bells  ringing — all  Lith- 
opolis  aroused,  leaving  its  front  doors 
open  as  it  rushed  to  the  blaze  half- 
dressed.  The  roof  was  aflame  when 
I  arrived:  we  all  brought  utensils  and 
formed  a  bucket  brigade.  Phil 
Oyler  and  Bart's  brother  Jake  took 
turns  at  the  pump,  filling  buckets, 
which  were  passed  on  from  hand  to 
hand  to  the  blazing  barn,  where  Bart 
himself  was  frantically  emptying  and 
handing  them  to  another  line  of  neigh- 
bours who  passed  them  rapidly  back 
to  the  panting  pump.  The  fright- 
ened chickens  and  barking  dogs 
added  gloriously  to  the  excitement. 
It  did  not  last  long  and  no  one  was 
hurt,  and  it  certainly  was,  taken  all 
in  all,  a  perfectly  lovely  fire. 

In  the  course  of  my  lively  but  brief 
correspondence    with    O.    Henry,    I 
learned   to  rely  on   the  Tombstone 
18 


LITHOPOLIS 

Lady.  Whenever  Lithopolis  seemed 
drained  of  incident  and  I  found  my 
pen  lagging,  I  could  always  fall  back 
upon  Alta  Jungkurth  (she  was  mus- 
cular from  her  trade  and  could  stand 
it).  If  your  mind  grasps  at  all  the 
fact  of  a  woman  chiselling  tomb- 
stones, you  probably  are  picturing 
her  as  a  middle-aged,  frowsy-haired, 
masculine-appearing  person,  loud- 
voiced  and  assertive.  Wipe  out  the 
picture — you  will  have  to  do  it  all 
over.  Our  Tombstone  Lady  was 
good-looking — yes,  noticeably  so — 
and  soft-voiced,  and  at  that  time,  I 
should  say,  full  fifty  years  younger 
than  the  age  at  which  according  to 
Ecclesiastes  she  would  have  personal 
use  for  one  of  her  own  stones.  She 
was  tall,  strong,  and  well-built,  for 
her  father  had  been  a  monumental 
man — so  to  speak.  The  music  of  the 
chisel    (for    the   shop    adjoined    the 

*9 


LETTERS  TO 

home)  had  been  her  first  lullaby,  and 
stones — everlasting  stones — tall, 
short,  round,  square,  cuneiform,  and 
oblong;  white,  gray,  and  granite-red 
— stones  were  her  only  toys.  She  had 
occasional  pets,  a  cat  for  one,  but  he 
died.  His  name  was  Tom,  and  Alta 
gave  vent  to  her  grief  by  erecting  a 
stone  to  his  memory — it  stands  to 
this  day  in  the  yard: 

Here  Lies 
TOM 

Alta  Jungkurth's  Cat 

This  is  the  simple  inscription  that 
serves  to  immortalize  Tom,  and  also 
to  prove  that  Alta  started  early  at 
her  trade.  In  course  of  time  she 
became  her  father's  sole  assistant. 
When  other  girls  were  learning  to 
embroider  and  trace  monograms  on 
fancy  work  they  sent  to  the  county 
fair,  Alta  was  tracing  letters  upon 


LITHOPOLIS 

enduring  stone,  destined  for  display 
upon  the  hilltop.  She  became  ex- 
pert in  marking  off  and  chiselling  all 
kinds  of  decorations — both  the  deep- 
cut  and  bas-relief.  So  what  more 
natural  than  that  she  should  take  her 
father's  place  in  the  shop  when  he, 
at  last,  took  his  place  in  the  grave- 
yard. There  were  orders  unfilled, 
stones  already  contracted  for,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  one  now  needed  to 
carry  the  name  of  Jungkurth.  Alta 
bared  her  strong  right  arm  and  went 
to  work  in  earnest.  She  even  under- 
stood the  "setting  'em  up" — which 
is  not  nearly  so  jocose  a  matter  as 
it  sounds  in  O.  Henry's  letter.  There 
is  a  whole  lot  to  learn  and  master  in 
this  unusual  tombstone  trade — cer- 
tain law  requirements  about  founda- 
tions, the  underground  depth  of 
stone  and  cement.  You  hired  day- 
labourers  or  the  grave-digger  for  this 

21 


LETTERS  TO 

work.  But  sometimes  Alta  pitched 
in  and  did  most  of  it  herself.  Often 
have  I  seen  her  with  swinging  step 
returning  from  the  graveyard  bal- 
ancing upon  her  shoulder  a  huge  clay- 
encrusted  spade.  Sometimes  she  was 
red  in  the  face  and  furious  because 
her  helpers  did  not  do  as  she  told 
them.  I  saw  her  once,  in  a  temper, 
fling  her  spade  across  the  yard  and 
declare  that  no  man  in  the  world 
seemed  to  know  enough  to  dig  a 
straight  line  or  set  a  foundation. 
She  had,  on  this  particular  day,  been 
obliged  to  undo  what  the  men  had 
done  and  rebuild  it  all  herself.  No 
one  could  deny  that  Alta  knew  the 
tombstone  business  from  the  ground 
up  and  from  the  surface  down;  so 
expert  was  she  that  for  miles  around 
she  was  often  sent  for  to  chisel  all  day 
in  some  quiet  graveyard  at  a  stone 
already  erected.     Indeed,   I  so  ad- 

22 


LITHOPOLIS 

mired  her  energy  and  unconscious 
hewing  of  new  paths  for  woman's 
work  that  I  wanted  to  write  an  article 
illustrated  with  pictures  showing  her 
at  her  unusual  trade.  This  last  sug- 
gestion shattered  the  project;  to  be 
pictured  in  her  work  clothes  did  not 
appeal  to  Alta.  When  she  posed  be- 
fore the  camera  it  must  be  in  her  Sun- 
day best.  With  this  dictum  still  clear 
in  my  memory,  I  look  with  relief  upon 
the  drawing  O.  Henry  has  made  of 
her.  I  am  sure  it  will  not  ruffle  her 
feelings  sartorially  if  she  chances  to 
see  this  book.  M.W. 

O.     HENRY 
TO     MISS     WAGNALLS 

New  York,  July  23rd,  1903. 
My  dear  Miss  Wagnalls: 

Just  for  a  change  from  the  side 
view  of  the  Lutheran  Church  and  the 
"tombstone  lady's"  outfit  across  the 

23 


LETTERS 

street,  will  you  let  me  have  the  floor 
for  a  few  lines?  Thank  you  very 
much  for  your  card  of  introduction 
to  Mr.  Wheeler,  although  I  haven't 
allowed  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling 
upon  him.  You  neglected  to  inform 
me  whether  his  office  is  in  the  second 
story  or  the  sixth,  and  I'm  shy  about 
bearding  absent-minded  editors  who 
live  too  high  above  the  sidewalk. 
From  long  practice  I  am  able  to  land 
safely  out  of  a  second-story  window, 
but  when  I  scrape  an  acquaintance 
I  don't  want  it  to  be  a  skyscraper. 
I  have  a  gifted  imagination  in  some 
things — here's  my  idea  of  Mr. 
Wheeler  from  your  description.  It 
represents  him  in  the  act  of  trying 
not  to  forget  to  ring  the  bell  when 
people  call  on  him  who  do  not  write 
articles  on  "Social  Inconsistencies  of 
Compound  Hyperrnatrophic  Astig- 
matism."    You  will  notice  that  my 

24 


53 


LETTERS 

reluctance  to  beard  editors  has  led 
me  to  give  Mr.  Wheeler  a  perfectly 
smooth  face.  Art  is  not  Art  when  it 
is  not  consistent. 

When  you  said  "a  book  about  the 
operas"  did  you  mean  a  book  you 
wrote?  Of  course  I  would  like  to 
read  it.  First  time  the  wagon  goes 
to  town  let  the  book  come  along,  will 
you?  Down  in  Texas  at  one  time  I 
belonged  to  a  first  rate  musical  asso- 
ciation (Amateur).  We  toured  the 
State  with  Pinafore  &  the  Bohemian 
Girl  &  the  Black  Mantles  &  the 
Mikado  &  the  "Chimes"  &c.  Me? 
Oh,  in  the  chorus,  of  course.  Except 
once.  Sang  the  part  of  Don  Hypo- 
lito  Lopez  Pomposo  Antonio  Riccardo 
Doloroso  in  the  Black  Mantles.  I 
put  in  the  next  2  years  living  it  down, 
&  finally  succeeded. 

Wait  a  minute  'till  I  look  at  that 
little  2x4  letter  of  yours.  O! 
26 


« 


I! 


i  I 

o 

is 

5  CO 

*3 


<L» 


a. 


^4 


4 


^  CO 

o 


LETTERS  TO 

That's  not  an  exclamation.  You 
guess  Otto  &  Oliver  &  Obadiah. 
Let's  see  how  they  look  [see  page  27 
for  sketches  that  accompanied  this 
letter].  Not  guilty.  Why  there's 
"Orlando"  and  "Oscar"  and  "Or- 
ville"  and  "Osric"  and  heaps  more. 

Now,  let's  see  again.  The  book! 
that  book  of  mine  will  be  out — it's 
hard  to  say  just  when.  I  haven't 
begun  to  write  it  yet.  I've  only 
gotten  as  far  as  deciding  about  the 
cover  and  edges. 

I  think  Fate  has  been  unjustly 
kind  to  you  in  the  bestowal  of  favours. 
You  are  revelling  in  rural  felicity 
and  eggs  and  country  air  and  scen- 
ery. That  should  be  enough  to 
satisfy  any  one.  And  yet  with  all 
those  blessings  heaped  at  your  feet 
you  are  accorded  the  additional 
privilege  of  having  witnessed  the 
thrilling  destruction  of  Bart  Kramer's 
28 


LITHOPOLIS 

barn  by  the  fire  demon.  It  is  not 
fair.  Isn't  a  holiday  enough  for  you 
without  your  demanding  holocausts 
too?  Though  denied  the  spectacle 
myself,  I  can  imagine  the  exciting 
scene — the  lurid  flames  lighting  up 
the  lurid  heavens  with  their  lurid 
glare,  and  Bart  rarin'  and  chargin' 
around  trying  to  rescue  the  buggy 
harness  and  the  settin'  hen.  In  such 
supreme  moments  do  you  never  give 
a  thought  to  the  unfortunates  cooped 
up  in  the  city  with  nothing  to  enter- 
tain them  except  roof  gardens  & 
murders  and  the  new  guimpe  styles 
in  pique  &  Russian  blouses  ? 

I'm  awfully  obliged  for  the  nice 
things  you  said  about  my  little  old 
stories.  I  don't  think  very  much  of 
'em  myself,  but  it  sounds  kind  of 
friendly,  anyway.  The  only  line  in 
which  I  am  convinced  that  I  am  truly 
great  is  in  Art.  This  you  can  see 
29 


LETTERS 

for  yourself.  I  once  illustrated  a 
book  for  a  Texas  writer.  When  he 
saw  the  pictures  he  tore  up  his  MS 
and  threw  it  into  the  Colorado  river. 
That's  a  fact. 

I  suppose  this  nonsense  of  mine  is 
getting  to  be  a  nuisance  by  this  time. 
But  I  really  am  not  able  to  take 
things  solemnly.  The  whole  business 
— life,  literature,  operas,  philosophy 
&  shirt  waists — is  a  kind  of  a  joke, 
isn't  it?  I  reckon  that  riding  around 
on  a  pony  on  the  Texas  prairies  think- 
ing about  the  beans  and  barbecued 
beef  we're  going  to  have  for  supper 
is  about  as  good  as  anything.  When 
the  illusions  go  the  best  thing  to  do 
is  to  take  it  good-humouredly.  So, 
there's  some  philosophy  for  you.  It 
isn't  solid  enough  to  keep  you  awake 
after  the  frogs  begin  to  croak  in 
Lithopolis. 

I'm  thinking  of  running  down  to 

3° 


.m% 


o 

a. 
c 


& 

'X. 


LETTERS  TO 

Tennessee  for  a  little  vacation  next 
month.  The  mountains  for  me! 
Don't  you  think  mountains  are  real 
cute?  Won't  you  write  me  again 
before  then  &  say  au  revoir?  And 
tell  me — is  the  tombstone  lady  doing 
nicely?  And  did  Bart  have  any  in- 
surance? And  are  there  any  katy- 
dids? And  crickets?  But  don't 
telegraph.  Letter  by  first  mail  will 
relieve  anxiety. 

Yours  very  sincerely 

O.  Henry. 

IV 

INTRODUCTORY    NOTE 

O.  Henry  was  continually  sending 
me  magazine  stories — either  recently, 
formerly,  or  about  to  be,  published. 
They  all  attested  to  his  rapid  advance 
on  the  road  to  fame,  and,  being  only 
human,  I  could  not  resist  the  impulse 
to  send  something  myself  to  show 
32 


LITHOPOLIS 

that  I,  in  my  own  poor  way,  was 
snailing  along  that  same  deep-rutted, 
long  long  road.  I  mailed  him  a  copy 
of  my  book  "Miserere,"  and  deftly, 
sort  of  careless-like,  slipped  in  among 
the  pages  a  circular  of  press  notices 
about  my  concert  work.  All  of  which 
accounts  for  the  slam-bang  jollying  I 
get  in  the  following  letter. 

The  Storekeeper  incident  is  a  more 
intricate  matter  to  explain.  It  in- 
volves, I  am  sorry  to  say,  a  little  side- 
stepping on  my  part  from  the  rigid 
line  of  veracity  which  the  four 
churches  of  Lithopolis  were  aiming  to 
inculcate.  It  happened  in  this  way: 
One  day  at  the  drug  store,  where  the 
books  on  one  side  balanced  the  bottles 
on  the  other,  I  was  looking  over  the 
magazines  and  found  one  of  them 
featuring  on  the  cover  a  story  by 
O.  Henry.     So  conspicuous  was  the 

33 


LETTERS  TO 

name  that  Mr.  Bennett,  the  com- 
pounder of  drugs  and  dispenser  of 
books, had  noticed  and  read  the  story. 
He  was  one  who,  in  spite  of  his 
pill-boxes,  thought  more  of  mind 
than  of  matter.  In  reply  to  a  pride- 
prompted  statement  from  me  that 
I  knew  O.  Henry — had  had  several 
letters  from  him — he  regarded  me 
with  sudden  interest  and  exclaimed: 

"You  don't  say!  How  did  you 
come  to  know  him?" 

This  was  a  question  I  was  unpre- 
pared for:  in  fact,  I  never  have  found 
myself  fully  accoutred — armed  cap- 
a-pie — to  parry  this  shaft  when  flung 
at  me  suddenly.  When  divorced 
from  its  adjacent  incidents,  the  sim- 
ple statement  of  fact,  "I  wrote  a  let- 
ter and  asked  who  he  was,"  is  a  state- 
ment that  might  go  unchallenged  in 
Greenwich  Village,  but  would  hardly 
pass  in  Lithopolis. 

34 


LITHOPOLIS 

When  flustered  one  clutches  at  half 
truths. 

"He  is  a  distant  cousin  of  my  great 
grandmother/'  I  announced  with  an 
air  of  finality  that  quieted  the  store- 
keeper's curiosity  and  also  my  own 
conscience,  for  I  still  did  not  know 
that  the  Henry  name  was  fictitious, 
and  as  I  had  not  specified  the  distance 
of  the  cousinship  my  statement  could 
stand  firm  under  considerable  bom- 
bardment. My  great  grandmother's, 
name  was  Hannah  Henry — upon  this 
foundation  rock  of  fact  I  stood  un- 
budging  as  one  of  Alta  Jungkurth's 
stones. 

So  much  for  the  "hazardous"  in- 
cident with  the  Storekeeper. 

M.  W. 


35 


LETTERS  TO 

O.     HENRY 
TO     MISS     WAGNALLS 

New  York,  Sept.  7th,  1903. 
My  dear  Miss  Wagnalls: 

I  returned  to  N.  Y.  this  week 

from  a  visit  to Tennessee ?     No, 

Pittsburg!!!!  (Thank  you  for  the 
sympathy  expressed  upon  your  coun- 
tenance.) Smoke,  soot,  gloom,  rain, 
hordes  of  Philistines  and  money- 
changers in  all  the  temples — well,  you 
know  what  it  was  like.  There  is  a 
new,  popular  version  of  the  poem 
commemorative  of  the  diminutive 
incipient  sheep  whose  outer  covering 
was  as  devoid  of  colour  as  congealed 
atmospheric  vapour  of  whom  Mary 
was  the  proprietress  that  seems  not 
to  do  the  subject  injustice.  Have 
you  heard  it?     It  runs  this  way: 

"Mary  had  a  little  lamb; 

Its  fleece  was  white  as  snow; 
She  took  it  to  Pittsburg  one  day — 

36 


LITHOPOLIS 

And  you  just  ought  to  see  the  gol 
darned  thing  now!" 

I  read  with  much  interest  the  little 
collection  of  press  notices  that  you 
enclosed.  Besides  a  lot  of  other 
things  it  tells  me  the  old  story  of 
woman's  duplicity.  I  thought  of  you 
as  a  simple  Manhattan  maiden  in 
Lithopolis  killing  caterpillars  in  a 
white  Leghorn  hat  (not  killing  'em 
in  the  hat)  while  you  plucked  daffo- 
dils and  related  to  an  admiring 
peasantry  the  glories  of  the  Eden 
Musee  &  Macy's  Store.  And  then, 
without  a  moment's  warning,  you 
hurl  at  me  the  information  that  fame 
is  yours — the  real  stuff  with  laurel 
trimmings  and  bay  insertion — that 
your  grosses  entwicklungsfahiges  tal- 
ent made  'em  sit  up  &  take  notice 
in  Berlin,  and  the  Schulerleis- 
tung  knocked  'em  cold  in  Plattsburg, 
N.Y. 

37 


LETTERS  TO 

But,  really,  I  do  realize  what  a 
success  you  have  made,  and  I  con- 
gratulates you  most  heartily,  al- 
though you've  made  me  feel  quite 
small  and  unimportant.  Oh,  what 
an  exquisite,  rippling  allegro,  staccato 
little  "jolly"  you  have  been  giving 
me!  Telling  me  nice  things  about 
my  poor  little  stories,  when  all  the 
time  you  were  getting  bouquets  in 
Berlin  and"bravas"  in  Binghampton 
and  curtain  calls  in  Conewago  and — 
well,  I'm  real  mad — so,  there! 

I  will  try  to  forgive  you  for  trap- 
ping me  so  neatly  by  asking  me  so 
demurely  and  offhandishly  if  I  was 
interested  in  music.  I  was  sure  that 
you  were  going  to  say  next  time  that 
you  and  your  school  chum  had  ar- 
ranged "Hiawatha"  for  a  duet,  and 
that  you  could  play  the  "Battle  of 
Prague"  with  your  wrists  crossed — 
and  then  comes  this  D  minor  con- 
38 


LITHOPOLIS 

certo  opus  47  news  and  strikes  me 
right  between  the  eyes.  I  have 
taken  the  full  count.  I  do  not|know 
a  concerto  or  a  legato  from  a  per- 
fecto  or  a  tomato,  but  I  can  recognize 
success,  and  if  you  will  please  listen 
carefully  you  will  hear  some  hand- 
clapping  'way  up  in  the  peanut  gal- 
lery— and  that'll  be  me. 

I  read  "Miserere/'  which  you  so 
kindly  sent,  with  no  small  interest. 
I  fancy  that  it  is  intended  to  appeal 
rather  to  those  who  possess  the  musi- 
cal   temperament    and    enthusiasm. 
I  am  barred  out  from  the  peculiar 
region  in  which  the  soul  of  the  musi- 
cian is  supposed  to  dwell,  but  I  found 
the  tale  ingenious  and  pleasing,  and 
admired  the  contained  and  simple 
style  in  which  it  is  told.     It  seemed 
to  me  to  be  a  natural  and  unstudied 
expression.     If  it  was  art  it  is  good 
art;  but  you  will  please  keep  on  your 
39 


LETTERS  TO 

own  ground  and  don't  come  interfer- 
ing with  my  line  of  business.  I  don't 
try  to  compete  with  you  in  your 
opuses  and  things,  and  I  think  you 
ought  to  play  fair.  I  did  take  a 
course  of  Sep  Winner's  System  of 
Self-Instruction  for  the  Violin  in  the 
woodshed  at  home,  but  I  am  not 
continuing  it  at  present,  so  I  do  not 
feel  that  you  could  consider  your 
laurels  in  any  danger  from  me. 
Lawsy!  ain't  it  funny  how  much 
jealousy  there  is  between  us  artists? 
Now,  Miss  Wagnalls,  will  you  al- 
low me  to  use  a  poetic  phrase  and 
ask  you  to  quit  your  kiddin'?  Un- 
less you  are  really  doing  so  (and  I 
grieve,  yea,  I  drop  a  tear  to  think  so) 
you  must  know  that  I  haven't  nearly 
"arrived"  yet.  I'm  only  on  the 
road,  and  the  "meteor"  and  "comet" 
&  "fixed  star"  that  you  make  be- 
lieve you  see  is  only  the  milky  way, 
4o 


LITHOPOLIS 

and  very  skim-milky  at  that,  and 
you  have  very  kindly  put  on  a  pair  of 
your  grandma's  magnifying  glasses  to 
view  it  with. 

Now,  if  you  don't  quit  it,  when  I 
write  again  I'll  fill  every  page  with 
extremely  laudatory  praise  of  the 
way  you  sledgehammered  that  noc- 
turne solfeggio  of  Chopin's  in  G  flat 
in  the  opera  house  at  Rahway,  N.  J. 

What  a  very  hazardous  situation 
you  were  in  when  you  had  the  conver- 
sation with  the  storekeeper!  How 
fortunate  that  you  were  not  called 
upon  to  give  him  a  description  of  your 
grandmother's  vague  &  mysterious, 
not  to  say  suspicious  relative.  Out 
of  concern  for  your  feelings,  in  a  fu- 
ture predicament,  I  feel  that  I  ought 
to  furnish  you  with  means  of  extrica- 
tion from  it.  Should  you  happen  to 
go  "up  to  the  store"  again  and  meet 
an  inquiry  of  a  similar  nature,  just 

41 


LETTERS  TO 

lay  the  enclosed  counterfeit  present- 
ment (clipped  from  a  catalogue)  on 
the  counter,  and  say:  "that's  him/' 
Be  sure  to  say  "him."  You  might 
lay  the  picture  close  against  the  gum- 
drop  jar  as  you  do  so,  thus  giving 
the  storekeeper  a  chance  to  remark: 
"Well,  by  gum!" 

If  the  storekeeper  here  should  ask 
me  about  the  distinguished  pianist 
whom  I  am  so  proud  to  know  so 
slightly,  of  course  I  would  be  utterly 
silenced  and  confounded.  I  could 
only  bow  my  head  with  regret  and 
humiliation,  and  walk  out  of  the 
store.  I  could  lay  nothing  next  to 
the  gumdrop  jar  in  silent  but  happy 
confirmation  of  my  claims. 

Ah,  well,  of  course  I  could  not  ex- 
pect— but — well, — would  there — I 
mean — I  know  there  couldn't — but — 
well,  if — (I  guess  I'll  have  to  correct 
this  sentence  in  the  proofs).  But 
42 


LITHOPOLIS 

a  bright  idea  strikes  me!  Aha!  Gen- 
ius can  scarcely  escape  belonging,  to 
a  certain  extent,  to  the  public. 
Maybe  there  is  one  in  a  book.  Aha ! 
away  to  the  Astor  library  to  search 
the  musical  publications!  Even  yet 
I  may  hurl  against  the  gumdrop  jar  a 
heavy  volume  containing  it !  A  good 
title  for  a  story — "The  Possessed 
Picture,  or  the  Penalty  of  Playing 
the  Piano  in  Public. " 

Very  glad  you  wrote  again.  I  en- 
joy your  letters  very  much,  only  they 
are  too  brief. 

Sincerely  yours 
O.  Henry. 


INTRODUCTORY     NOTE 

The  substance  of  the  next  letter 
was  called  forth  by  one  from  me 
announcing  our  intended  return  to 
New  York. 

43 


LETTERS  TO 

The  clipping  from  the  "Reader" 
magazine  was  a  brief  biography  about 
"the  new  luminary  in  fiction's  firma- 
ment." It  was  the  first  article,  I 
believe,  revealing  that  O.  Henry  was 
the  nom  de  plume  of  Sydney  Porter. 

M.  W. 

O.  HENRY 
TO  MISS  WAGNA LLS 

44  West  26th  St. 
New  York,  Oct.  13  [  1903  ]. 

My  dear  Miss  Wagnalls: 

'The  time  has  come/  the  walrus 
said,  'to  talk  of  many  things/ '  I 
have  a  deep,  dark  confession  to  make 
to  you.  Please  consider  me  kneeling 
before  you  with  one  knee  on  a  hand- 
kerchief, and  the  orchestra  playing: 
"Since  first  I  met  you." 

If  you  remember,  once  you  wrote 
that  you  did  not  know  whether  I 
were  "man,  woman  or  wraith." 

44 


LITHOPOLIS 

Well,  I  am  a  wraith.  There  never 
was  an  "O.  Henry."  The  name  is  a 
nom  de  guerre;  but  still  it  is  mine,  for 
I  made  it. 

While  I  do  not  claim  to  be  spe- 
cially modest  or  violet-like,  I  have 
always  disliked  publicity,  and  there- 
fore I  have  written  and  often  corre- 
sponded with  publishers  and  others 
above  that  pseudonym. 

The  clipping  from  the  "  Reader " 
which  I  enclose  will  serve  to  further 
illuminate  the  matter. 

Of  course,  to  the  editors  of  "Mc- 
Clure's"  and  "Ainslee's"  and 
"Everybody's,"  "Harper's,"  &c,  I 
am  known  personally,  and  they 
assist  me  in  preserving  the  pen 
name. 

Yes,  indeed,  Miss;  and  if  ye  wants 
any  riferences,  ye  can  ask  them  same 
gintlemen,  sure,  what  they  knows 
about  "O.  Hinry." 

45 


LETTERS  TO 

I  hope  you  won't  consider  my 
"Henry"  role  as  anything  like  a  de- 
ception, for  I  began  writing  to  you 
that  way  and— well  I  AM  "O. 
HENRY,"  so  maybe  you'll  let  me 
stay  so.  I'm  sure  I'd  rather  be 
your  cousin  than  anybody  else's  I 
know. 

Indeed  I  would  be  very  glad  and 
pleased  to  call  at  your  home  as  you 
have  so  graciously  extended  per- 
mission, and  if  you  decide,  after  read- 
ing my  confession  of  guilt,  to  allow 
me  to  do  so,  I  will  look  forward  to 
the  time  with  much  pleasure. 

I  read  with  some  alarm  your 
threats  with  regard  to  the  "new 
frock."  Please  don't  do  it.  I'm 
only  a  lone  cowpuncher — a  long  ways 
from  camp,  and  I  shy  like  a  bronco 
at  anything  with  passementerie  or 
ruching  on  the  flounces.  Please 
make  it  a  quiet,  soothing  function — 
46 


LITHOPOLIS 

just  as  the  boys  and  girls  meet  in 
the  graveyard  in  Lithopolis — won't 
you? 

Td  like  very  much  to  come  down 
and  tell  you  all  about  tarantulas  and 
cyclones  and  train  robbers  &c. 

If  you  decide  to  forgive  me  for  my 
(innocent)  deception,  please  notify 
me,  and  I  will  feel  happier. 

No,  I  am  not  as  busy  as  you  think. 
I  should  be,  but  as  I  have  no  one  to 
boss  me  and  make  me  keep  at  work 
I  am  generally  what  you  would  call 
pretty  lazy.  Therefore,  my  even- 
ings are  mostly  open,  as  most  of  my 
movements  are  decidedly  impromptu. 

So,  if  I  am  so  lucky  as  to  escape 
your  censure,  I  would  esteem  it  a 
great  favour  to  be  allowed  to  call  any 
evening — say  Thursday  or  Friday 
this  week  or  any  evening  next  week, 
whichever  may  suit  you  best. 

If  you  decide  to  "turn  down"  the 

47 


LETTERS  TO 

"wraith"  there  will  be  no  more 
calendar — neither  days,  weeks,  or 
months. 

Sincerely  yours 
&  hoping  to  be  still  your  cousin 
Sydney  Porter 
"O.  Henry." 

VI 

INTRODUCTORY     NOTE 

This  "Majesty"  letter  has  back  of 
it  considerable  language  in  the  way 
of  conversation — as  the  Gentle 
Grafter  would  say. 

We  had  talked  once  of  the  impossi- 
ble manuscripts  that  are  sent  to  and 
passed  through  every  editorial  sanc- 
tum. He  told  of  spending  an  hour 
with  an  editor  who  was  glancing  over 
the  day's  accumulation  of  stories, 
one  of  which,  in  describing  a  social 
function,  said: 

48 


LITHOPOLIS 

"The  rooms  were  filled  by " 

O.  Henry  paused  at  this  point  and 
asked  me  to  guess  what  they  were 
filled  by.  I  gave  it  up:  "by  half- 
past  nine"  was  the  conclusion  of  the 
quotation. 

I  contributed  a  phrase  gleaned 
from  a  Funk  &  Wagnalls  MS.  that 
had  come  our  way:  it  was  a  novel 
dealing  with  Anne  of  Austria.  The 
Duke  of  Buckingham  had  addressed 
Her  Majesty  with  some  query — I 
forget  what — but  the  next  line  read: 
"'Sure/  said  the  Queen." 
Some  time  later  I  read  a  story  by 
Rex  Beach — a  new  name  in  those  days 
— and  finding  a  touch  of  the  Henry- 
esque  in  the  style,  and  recalling  that 
O.  Henry  had  told  me  he  sometimes 
wrote  stories  under  other  names, 
I  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that 
this  was  one  of  them.  Crossing  out 
the  Rex  Beach  name  and  writing  O. 

49 


LETTERS  TO 

Henry  above  it,  I  added  as  sole  ex- 
planation, the  words  "'Sure/  said 
the  Queen."  The  day  after  mailing 
him  the  story  I  received  this  royal 
reply.  M.  W. 

O.     HENRY 
TO     MISS     WAGN  A  LLS 

25  East  24th  St., 
N.  Y.  Nov.  11  [  1903  ]. 

To  Her  Majesty 

the 

Queen  of  Bad  Guessers 

"Wrong,  your  Majesty,"  replied 
the  thingumbob. 

Rather  funny,  but  Rex  E.  Beach 
called  in  to  see  me  just  after  I  had 
your  royal  communication.  He  is 
a  big,  broad,  breezy  fellow  from 
Alaska,  and  he  travels  for  a  fire  brick 
manufactory,  and  writes  his  stories 
on  trains  or  pieces  of  paper  or  what- 
ever comes  handy. 

5° 


LITHOPOLIS 

Here  I  am  at  25  E  24th,  and  3 
editors  are  guarding  the  door  &  keep- 
ing me  in  at  work. 

Won't  your  Majesty  send  a  troop 
of  Mousquetaires  to  rescue  me? 

I'm  as  ragged  and  disreputable 
looking  as  Russell  Sage.  When  I 
sell  a  story  &  buy  some  new  clothes 
may  I  then  ask  you  to  give  me  some 
more  tea? 

P.  S.  And  little  cakes.  Yours  very 
truly  and  hard  at  work 

O.  H. 

VII 

INTRODUCTORY     NOTE 

Another  painful  incident,  similar 
to  the  one  that  occurred  in  Mr.  Ben- 
nett's drug  store,  was  the  occasion 
for  this  diatribe  upon  the  crime  of 
prevarication.  A  stranger  whom  I 
met  at  a  reception  was  the  villain  in 

51 


LETTERS  TO 

this  instance  who  cast  me  into  con- 
fusion and  blighted  my  expanding 
pride  in  O.  Henry's  acquaintance. 

"How  did  you  happen  to  meet 
him?"  I  suddenly  heard  thundered 
at  me.  The  man  may  have  spoken 
mildly,  but  those  words  were  to  me 
like  a  bomb  from  the  blue.  I  was 
not  wholly  paralyzed,  however,  and 
therefore  succeeded  in  answering 
vaguely  but  rather  ingenuously,  I 
think,  and  with  a  commendable 
regard  for  the  half-truth: 

"Oh,  through  an  editor  friend." 
The  villain's  next  sentence  ex- 
plained the  why  of  his  interest  in  my 
meeting  with  the  Lone  Star  of  Texas. 
He  (the  villain)  also  hailed  from  that 
state,  and  having  cowboy  memories 
akin  to  O.  Henry's  had  frequently 
thought  of  trying  to  lasso  an  ac- 
quaintanceship with  him.  In  fact, 
he  stated  his  intention  of  proceeding 
52 


LITHOPOLIS 

at  once  to  look  him  up.  I  instantly 
had  visions  of  a  chummy  intimacy 
ensuing  between  O.  Henry  and  the 
villain,  and  the  possibility  that  he 
might  learn  that  not  an  editor  friend 
but  a  letter  of  curiosity  from  me  had 
started  up  our  acquaintance.  One 
does  hate  to  be  caught  in  a — mis- 
truth.  Rather  than  be  caught  in  it, 
one  prefers  owning  up  in  advance. 
So  this  is  what  I  did — wrote  out  a 
full  confession,  which  I  signed  and 
sealed  and  sent  to  O.  Henry — with 
fine  results,  as  every  reader  of  the 
following  letter  will  admit. 

O.     HENRY 
TO     MISS     WAGNALLS 

[Date  on  Envelope  Dec.  8,  1903.] 
25  E  24th  St., 

New  York. 

My  dear  Miss  Wagnalls: 

You  can't  imagine  how  delighted  I 
am  to  welcome  you,  as  an  honorary 

53 


LETTERS  TO 

Member,  into  the  noble  army  of 
Prevaricators.  I  am  one  by  prefer- 
ence, habit,  and  practice,  and  I  have 
an  unholy  glee  whenever  we  get  in 
a  recruit  from  the  rapidly  thinning 
ranks  of  the  Truth  Tellers. 

Of  course  I  will  protect  your  re- 
treat from  that  very  dull  company; 
and  if  the  "terrible  person  from 
Texas"  dares  to  propound  any  of  his 
impertinent  interrogations,  I  shall 
swear  to  him  by  the  eye-tooth  of 
Ananias  in  the  sacred  Lodge  Room  of 
the  Prevaricators  that  Mr.  Wheeler 
was  so  kind  as  to  introduce  me  to 
you  at  a  tea  party  at  half  past  five 
under  an  oleander  tree  in  the  prairie 
during  a  snowstorm  in  July  while 
you  wore  a  pink  chiffon  overcoat  and 
an  organdie  muff  just  after  a  cattle 
round-up  in  Madison  Avenue.  These 
little  details  will  give  the  story — 
watch  out  for  this  word — verisimili- 
tude, won't  they? 

54 


LITHOPOLIS 

But  don't  let  your  conscience 
bother  you,  you  did  exactly  right. 
Next  time  it  will  be  much  easier,  and 
by  and  by  you  will  become  a  full- 
fledged  member  of  the  P's,  and  can 
tell  'em  just  as  easy! 

I  suppose,  with  your  unfortunate 
love  for  music,  that  you  are  enjoying 
the  extremely  disagreeable  noises 
with  which  the  alleged  operas  are 
delighting  the  misguided  admirers  of 
such  sounds  this  season.  I,  myself, 
have  never  heard  "Tannhauser"  or 
"  Aida,"  but  I  do  not  wish  to  seem  as 
boasting  of  my  luck.  Of  course  Fm 
not  saying  anything  against  the 
piano.  Before  the  pianola  was  in- 
vented the  piano  was  a  real  joy  and 
convenience  in  homes  where  nobody 
could  play  it — they're  so  handy  to 
pile  old  magazines  on. 

Do  you  ever  hear  from  Lithopolis? 
Sitting  here  in  my  lonely  apartments 


LETTERS  TO 

(i)  I  often  wonder  if  Bart  Kramer 
has  rebuilt  his  barn  yet — the  one 
devastated  by  the  fearful  holocaust 
that  struck  its  ice-cold  fangs  into  the 
doomed  city  while  you  were  there. 
And  again  I  sit  in  the  gloaming  and 
seem  to  see  the  patient  figure  of  Jane 
Harkishamer  as  she  fetches  up  the 
hoss  and  buggy  to  the  gate.  And 
the  tombstone  lady! — is  she  still 
settin'  'em  up  to  her  friends  yet? 

I'm  afraid  you're  fickle,  and  you 
now  prefer  Rex  E.  Beach  and  Mari- 
etta Holly,  or  you  would  keep  me 
posted  about  these  matters  in  which 
we  were  once  mutually  interested. 
Aha !  Do  I  see  you  turn  pale  ?  You 
are  discovered!  Once  your  Cousin 
but  now  forgotten!! 

"O  Henry." 


56 


LITHOPOLIS 

VIII 

This  letter  is  almost  self-explana- 
tory. The  book,  sent  through  my 
publishers,  is  dedicated: 

"To  those  who  love  music  but  have  no 
opportunity  of  familiarizing  themselves 
with  Grand  Opera." 

O.  Henry,  with  his  characteristic 
cleverness  in  juggling  phrases,  wittily 
inverts  my  dedication. 

M.  W. 

O.     HEN  R  Y 

TO     MISS     WAGNALLS 

28  West  26th  Street, 
New  York,  Oct.  28,  1907. 

My  dear  Miss  Wagnalls: 

Your    publishers    sent   me   your 

latest  book  some  days  ago,  and  your 

card  accompanying  it  leads  me  to 

suspect  that  you  instigated  the^deed. 

I  am  sure  proud  to  get  it;  and  have 

57 


LETTERS 

waited  a  few  days  before  writing  in 
order  to  send  with  my  acknowledg- 
ment my  latest  volume  of  poor,  in- 
significant, tiresome,  unworthy,  dull, 
pusillanimous,  insufferable  stories. 

(Of  course  you  understand  that  the 
adjectives  are  hypocritical.) 

I  am  going  to  read  "Stars  of  the 
Opera"  carefully,  and  use  the  in- 
formation in  my  conversation  to  gain 
a  "rep"  as  a  musical  critic  without 
having  to  go  through  the  work  of 
listening  to  the  music. 

I  feel  that  I  am  one  of  the  dedica- 
tees of  your  book,  and  that  the 
printer  has  been  in  error,  and  that  it 
should  read  "To  those  who  love 
musicians  but  have  no  opportunity 
to  familiarize  themselves  with  writers 
on  grand  opera." 

Oh,  those  proof-readers ! 

Sincerely  yours 

Sydney  Porter. 

58 


THIS  VOLUME  WAS  PRINTED  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
AT  THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  LONG  ISLAND,  N.  Y. 
THE  PRINTING  WAS  COMPLETED  IN 
THE  MONTH  OF  FEBRUARY 
MCMXXII 


59 


